How About Never
by theflawintheplan
Summary: High School AU. Linebacker Alfred Jones has a crush. Exchange student Eleanor Kirkland is not amused. Continuing for est. 1995, please don't think I'm stealing this from her!
1. Meet the Jocks

So there's either something wrong with Jones or there's something wrong with Ivan's eyes, but whatever the case is, Jones stands frozen by the entrance to the cafeteria with a _Look_ on his face. And Ivan, having known Jones for as long as he has, knows that the _Looks_ are kept for three and only three occasions:

One, he fell in love. (Only happened once, with Ivan's cousin, and it was the most awkward thing ever when Nat dumped him for that Japanese kid.)

Two, he got a surprise boner. (Like, in-the-middle-of-math-class surprise. But Ivan has to admit that Miss Wang is one hot bitch.)

Three, he ate a turkey burger. (Not even Hole in the Wall burgers are good enough to prevent Looks when this happens.)

Ivan makes a mental checklist, and the obvious lack of the latter two options (no tent in Jones' pants and the school's got something against healthy food, really, because even the salads come with 300-calorie dressing, so no turkey burgers) means that it's the first scenario.

He follows Jones' gaze to—oh, _hello_, who's that?

Now, Ivan's totally flaming, right, but he's got an eye for beauty and he can't deny that beauty is one thing that the new girl's stocked up on. She is one hot piece of ass, with slim curves and pouty lips and light blonde hair held back off her face with a few crossed Bobby pins. Her eyebrows, uncharacteristically dark on her face, stand out as much as her acid-green eyes, and she wears a lovely cream sweaterdress and a bored expression even though she's got most of the school watching her grab some of the more-edible-looking food from the lunch line.

Ivan whistles low and punches Jones in the arm. "She's hot, man," he agrees, and Jones trembles.

"Who is she?" He asks, awestruck and perfectly pliant as Ivan shoves him toward the line. "I've never seen her before. And I've never slept with her. But she's too hot to have been in this school and avoided the Jonezilla. Or the Frenchman. But the Frenchman would've told me if he—"

"You're babbling. Shut up," replies a cheery Ivan, pushing a tray into Jones's hands.

"You shut up, queer-o. And hold my spot, bro, I gotta talk to—hey, hands off!" Jones cuts off with a whine, and glares at Ivan. "What the hell?"

"Gg," Ivan remarks with a shake of his head as Liz Hedervary stands and strides over to the blonde girl, a wide smile on her face. "G-fucking-g."

"Goddammit," groans Jones, looking like he has half a mind to go talk to the new girl anyway, but The Rules simply cannot be disobeyed.

The Rules are basically Saint Justine's codes of conduct, which are so important that the "the" gets capitalized and the entire thing underlined even in speech. A copy of it sits in the library, between the trig textbooks and the AP Physics Princeton guides. You can't go to Saint Justine's and not know The Rules, just like you can't not get fries with your In-n-Out burger; if you're one of the few who don't know them then you might as well turn in your dignity and popularity then and there. But sometimes you can get away with it, because Rule 1 outweighs all others when it says to never mention The Rules.

Either way, Rule 8 is also extremely weighty. It dictates, "Members of a particular clique or status shall refrain from association with anyone outside their rank unless your union is sanctioned by The Rules. See subsection A for ranks and primary aspects of each rank and subsection B for a full list of sanctioned fraternizations. See subsection C for information on which ranks to assume in the case of a student being applicable to more than one." Subsection B's list is relatively long, and reads that Jocks can bone Cheerleaders, Cinderellas (the hot nerds, because people who dress like librarians are all sex addicts), and Gamers; the Gamers can hook up with Stoners, Techies, Jocks, and Merfolk; that Nerds can accept anything, but can't offer; and so on.

Jones and Ivan are Jocks—which, as subsection A clearly states, means that they're on football, wrestling, or hockey teams. Water sports are grouped under the rank "Merfolk", and field sports—soccer, lacrosse, etc.—are "Runners".

Liz Hedervary and her crew are Dancers—which, as subsection A also clearly states, means that they're on one of the school's three dance teams or that they take dance classes or run dance clubs. See, Dancers are like Cheerleaders (a self-explanatory rank), kinda-sorta, but they're more boyish. They bridge Gamers and Hipsters, and Band Geeks and Preps, and all sorts of other unrelated ranks, but nowhere in The Rules does it say that Dancers can associate with either Cheerleaders or Jocks.

Well, unless you're the Frenchman, because the Frenchman can fuck anyone and get away with it. Because he's French, you know, and has a rank of his own: Sex Shark. It's written in The Rules, albeit in messy pink pen, and The Rules cannot be defied.

But long story short, if Liz Hedervary nabs the new girl quickly enough, Jones can throw any hope he had of getting into her pants out the window because he is a Jock and not the Frenchman.

And—shit, Liz Hedervary nabbed the new girl quickly enough. Ivan winces and pats his friend on the back as New Girl and Liz Hedervary walk off together toward the Dancers' table.

"Goddammit," Jones repeats, grabbing a basket of fries and a burger and the last pudding cup off some hapless freshman's tray. "Goddammit! Do you think Liz's gonna give the new girl a rundown? And, like, a copy of The Rules?"

"Yes," replies Ivan immediately, but he can't figure out why Liz Hedervary would ever nab a new kid so quickly. The last time she did so was when Roderich Edelstein transferred in from some Austrian high school with less-than-adequate English skills but an air of elegance around him that turned out to be the result of years of piano and dance lessons; Liz Hedervary, as dance team captain and leader of the Dancers, naturally yanked him over to her corner of the quad one day and refused to let him go.

And yes, Liz Hedervary is pure evil—so evil, in fact, that even Ivan's _mind_ can't refrain from saying her full name every time he thinks of her. "Liz" sounds so gentle until you attach the demonic surname and remember that said girl is not only your typical selfish, back-stabbing, slut-faced ho-bag, but also an abomination against Man and God. Or something like that, Ivan can't remember exactly what fellow Jock Gilbert Beilschmidt said because _Kaltherzig_. Yum.

"Hey," pouts Jones as the two of them take their regular spots at the Jock table. Ivan glances up as Jones prods him in the forehead with a banana, and _are-you-kidding-me_s him. "If I'm not allowed to fantasize about the new girl anymore, you're not allowed to fantasize about Kaltherzig."

(By the way, Ludwig Kaltherzig is a Stoner. But—but—guh, it's so unfair, because there's just something amazing about how Kaltherzig can smoke five joints a day and still have all A's and stay on the football team. There's just something amazing about his perfect hair and his cold blue eyes and his large hands and his eight-pack and his almost-as-tall-as-Ivan stature and the way BRAGINSKI rolls his tongue during practice. By the way, Stoner status supersedes Jock status, which is why Ivan's schoolboy crush is illegal.)

Jones continues, "Besides—if one of us gets caught, you'll be in deeper shit. Cuz it's a guy."

"Cool story, bro."

"Should I _tell it again_?"

"…No."

Kaltherzig sits down across the cafeteria, sliding into place next to Jones' cousin. Ivan sighs.

¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬

As it turns out, Ivan has New Girl in his third-period class. Unfortunately, that is also the only class he doesn't have with Jones. After lunch, he enters the room and sees her standing by Miss Wang, voice soft but British accent distinguishable amongst the hustle-bustle of other students. Must suck to move from another country halfway through the school year.

Everyone sits down, except for New Girl, who remains on her feet.

"I'm sure several of you know already that we at Saint Justine's have just recently begun an exchange program," says Miss Wang, smiling amiably—except that her expression is, once you look carefully enough, really just thinly-concealed malice. "Miss Kirkland here is the first of many. Please introduce yourself."

New Girl attempts a smile—at least, Ivan thinks she does—but it turns out crooked, with only one side of her thin pink lips twisting up. "Hullo, I'm Eleanor Kirkland. It's nice to meet you all, and I hope we'll get along." The few boys other than Ivan who _weren't_ imagining her naked probably do right then because she has an accent and accents are sexy. "But yes. As Miss Wang said, I've just transferred in—from a school in London, as if you can't all tell from my accent."

By fourth period, the entire school knows her name.

"Eleanor Kirkland," sighs a smitten Jones. (His Georgian lilt makes even such a dull name sound sexy, and if not for that one psychological thingy about how you usually don't fall in love with people you spent your childhood with, Ivan would be _all over_ Jones's ass just because of the accent.) "Eleanor Kirkland. Beautiful."

"Yeah, and you call _me_ a fag," shudders Ivan.

But dull name or not, Eleanor's hot, so naturally the Frenchman hones in on her. Ivan and Jones watch from their shared locker on the other side of the hall, and Jones's face reddens steadily.

And, of course, they can't hear what the Frenchman's saying to Eleanor, but they've overheard enough conversations to guesstimate that it goes something like this:

_Frenchman:_ Bonjour, ma chérie. _Surely we have never met before—I would have remembered such a beautiful face._

_Girl: /giggle giggle_

_Frenchman: -insert pickup line here that only makes the girl overeager to fuck him-_

Except right now, Eleanor doesn't look like she's giggling. Actually, her face is flushing a rather unflattering strawberry colour, and before anyone knows what's happening, she's wacking the Frenchman with her very heavy red-binded calculus book.

"YOU. FUCKING. _PRICK_!" She screams, loud enough that everyone stops to watch. "WHY THE _HELL_ ARE YOU HERE?"

"Ellie, s'il vous plait, not the face—just—euh!"

"DON'T CALL ME ELLIE! YOU LOST THE RIGHT TO THAT THREE YEARS AGO!"

She is totally shouting, and it's the funniest thing ever because nobody shouts at the Frenchman.

Just then, the bells rings, and everyone reluctantly rushes to fourth-period, their last class before the weekend. Well, everyone except Eleanor, who apparently has an open last, because she throws a water bottle at the Frenchman's head before head before heading out.

¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬

"I think," starts Jones that night as he and Ivan lay sprawled on the carpet, Xbox controllers in hand as they rage through levels of Kino, "that I have a shot with Eleanor."

"You're shitting me, man," sighs Braginski. "We already had this discussion. Two times, actually."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything! I mean, you saw her just break Rule 24 in full view of everyone!"

Rule 24 states that the Sex Shark shall never be shamed on school grounds. Eleanor slapping the Frenchman in the face—with a textbook, no doubt—broke that rule pretty cleanly, and Ivan knows how blasphemous that is.

"And?"

"And," Jones presses, "that means that maybe she doesn't give a fuck about The Rules!"

"Liz Hedervary will."

"Who cares about her?"

"Uh, everyone that doesn't care about you?"

"Everyone who doesn't care about me or _Nat_, you mean."

"Don't bring my cousin into this."

"She's cheerleading captain, man! I've boned her like six—"

"LA LALALA LALALA LALALA—"

"Are you seriously singing the Tetris tune to block me out?"

"Yes. Shut up, I'm Russian. I can do this shit."

"…Okay, why not. Uh, anyway, like I was saying, Nat's got a fourth of the school behind _her_, I've got a fourth of the school behind _me_, and Kiku's got a fourth of the school behind _him_, which means there's only…uh, 25% of Saint Justine's that'll care if I bone Eleanor. She's too new to really be part of the Dancers anyway. All I gotta do is talk to her, and get her to like me, and we're set! It's talking to her that's the hard part, cuz Liz prolly installed laser defences around Eleanor's house and—"

Jones is a moron, but he's Ivan's best friend and Bromantic buddy and blahblahblah. And he's too stupid to do this on his own—well, not really, but his strong points are science and history, not logic and tactics.

So Ivan groans and interrupts. "Jones, I swear to God that if this madness gets me out or outed, I will smite you." Then he stops shooting zombies and starts shooting Dempsey (because, in true Nazi Zombies style, Jones plays as Dempsey while Ivan plays Belinski) just for good measure, but Jones is too excited to care.

"Thanks, man!" He grins even as Ivan leaves him to die at the hand of Nazi swarms.

¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬.¬

Then the next week, they learn that yes, Eleanor is really part of the Dancers. She walks around the corridors next to Liz Hedervary, both of them donning the neon yellow DANCING QUEEN t-shirts and blinding everyone out of their way, and she performs perfectly in second-spot at the pep rally that afternoon. Second-spot is signified by her routine matching perfectly with Liz's, but for the last two years Mei Chiang's been in second-spot because she's the second-best dancer at the school, and Eleanor suddenly dancing in second-spot means that she's better than Mei Chiang even though nobody other than Liz Hedervary's better than Mei. Mei's still been bumped down to third-spot and she's paired with third-spot-who-is-now-fourth-spot, and aims a distinctly furious smile at Eleanor's back the whole time.

Jones's lip trembles as the routine ends and the pep squad come back onto the floor. "Aw, fuck," he whimpers.

Aw, fuck indeed.

**A/N: So this is the first chapter. Like I said in the summary, this story is being continued for est. 1995 because she is leaving the fandom and was kind enough to let me attempt to keep up the awesome level this story has.**

**Please leave comments and guesses about who you think will get together. (Seriously, I need some help on whether to keep it US/UK and Rus/Ger or make it Rus/US! Lol)**

**Your ever thankful author,**

**¬theflawintheplan**


	2. Things Start to Get Interesting

Jones's wibbling, trembling state gets around fast, even though nobody knows why. By break, Yong-Soo—who was famous for both his incessant gossip and his parties, which were the craziest parties in the history of crazy parties, and who had decided in seventh grade that the Jones-Braginski duo should be called the Cold War Couple—declared that the obviously emotional and erotic co-dependency between the two most powerful seniors at school had suddenly exploded in terms of faggotry; by lunch, the teachers were shooting both members of the Cold War Couple wary looks, as if they feared that the faggotry could catch or that Jones would suddenly throw a tantrum.

And, oh, does Jones suddenly throw tantrums. Every time he sees Eleanor with Liz Hedervary or any of the other Dancers, to be more specific.

Ivan puts up with Jones's moping (read: Jones's irritability, snappiness, douchebagginess, etc.) for all of four days before he decides that yeah, it's time for an Intervention.

Interventions are serious shit, though, and Ivan's broke but Lucy owes him a favour (and at Saint Justine's, where The Rules reign supreme, favours actually matter), so he calls it in first thing Friday morning.

Well, not really. It's more like Romy calls him on Thursday night at two thirty in the morning and asks if he has a lighter, and in the split-second gap before him saying that he doesn't and her hanging up Ivan fits in a quick _btw I need and Intervention_ and she stays on the phone for another thirty seconds so he can explain, and then he signs away his life and immortal soul, and then she tells him that he'd better fucking bring a lighter tomorrow or the deal's off, and then he asks if they can drink instead, and then she hangs up, and then he goes back to sleep.

"You really didn't have to do that," says Jones, but he's obviously and awkwardly grateful. Ivan sighs, long-suffering, and punches him in the jaw for good measure. Jones, for his credit, merely groans and rubs at the reddening skin and doesn't sock Ivan back.

The distress doesn't set in until last period. "I hate you," he tells Jones after practice. It's almost 5:30, and on a Friday the parking lot's empty. They're standing by Baby, Jones's beloved 1967 Mustang—the one the two of them rebuilt from the ground up (meaning that Alfred rebuilt it while Ivan shouted encouragement and stole his wallet to pay for a pizza) the summer before last but which Ivan can honestly say that Jones never lets him drive—and Ivan's sore in places he _really_ doesn't want to be sore in. "I really, really fucking hate you."

Jones, rifling through his Jansport for Baby's keys, laughs but doesn't pause to respond. "Yup. I still think you're crazy." He unlocks the trunk and pushes it open.

Groaning, Ivan drops his gym bag on top of Jones's. He's got his license and his own car and everything but he's lazy, and since Jones lives literally down the street Ivan usually just hitches a ride to and from school, but today's the Intervention. Romy could totally pick him up from his house, but that'd just make everything awkward. "I'm practically whoring myself out for you today."

"It ain't proper whoring unless you're wearing the panties I bought you last year," snickers Jones as he slams the trunk shut and walks around to the driver door. "Just admit that you loved them and maybe I'll get you some with a hammer and sickle on them for Christmas."

The aforementioned panties, which have this weird pattern of pseudo-stars-n-stripes on them, were soft and lacy and purchased from some weird boutique Jones found while visiting folks in New York; Ivan's got thin hips, so the undies fit pretty snugly, but he's never, ever, ever, _ever_ going to admit that yes, he likes those panties very much and wears them after particularly greuling practices because the smooth shift of silk on his sore nether regions is much more relaxing than cotton briefs or boxers. "Absolutely," he scoffs instead.

"You sure you don't want a ride?" Jones offers again after he's climbed into the front seat and reversed out of the spot. "I can just drop you at Lucy's."

"Nah, it's fine," Ivan sighs, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'm calling this a _favour_, Jones. You owe me big time."

"Want me to do your physics homework?" (Physics is Ivan's worst subject. It's also Jones's best.) "For the rest of the month?" Jones adds after Ivan fails to reply. "And I'll get a copy of Chernenko's next three tests and do them before class and give you the answers."

Considering the state of Ivan's _own_ love life, it's a pretty bad deal. He takes it anyway. "I also need a lighter."

Jones leans over to open the glove compartment and extracts one of the many Zippos he's collected over the years. He doesn't smoke but he used to; Ivan's smoked all of two times, both of which he hated, and he avoids it unless the occasion calls for it. Today the occasion calls for it.

Ivan takes the offered lighter and flicks it open, tests the fluid left, and puts it into his pocket. "Don't give that back to me," Jones warns him. "Vargas'll touch it and I don't want to catch her slut."

Snorting, Ivan steps back from the car. "Like you don't have it already, you filthy, double-standarding misogynist. Now get your ass out of here. Lucy'll charge me double if she sees you."

Jones laughs and salutes before swinging his car around, very nearly hitting Ivan (who jumps further out of the way and shakes a fist toward the guy menacingly) and speeding out of the lot.

Not twenty seconds after Jones departs, a silver Audi drives smoothly up to Ivan. The passenger window rolls down as the car slows to an almost stop, and Ivan has to walk to keep up.

Interventions at Saint Justine's are, apart from being the sole event in which associations deemed by The Rules may be overlooked, generally one of three things: highly-publicised deals with the Frenchman, whom Ivan's got no patience for; highly-scandalous deals with Nat Arlovskaya, whom Ivan could wheedle into helping him for free but who wouldn't be able to do much because Cheerleaders can't associate with Dancers either; or highly-illegal deals with Lucietta Romana Vargas, who_ can_ help because she's a Gamer, and Gamer girls are allowed to hang out with Dancers. It's a plus that Ivan genuinely likes Lucy, even though she's usually baked out of her mind during their shared English class.

"Get in, loser," sneers Lucy Vargas, leaning over to open the passenger door, "and tell me you have a lighter."

Ivan pulls the Zippo out of his back pocket and throws it into the cupholder, next to the probably empty Starbucks cup, before sliding in and pulling on his seatbelt. Lucy thankfully already adjusted the space, pushing the seat back as far as possible to give Ivan a place for his freakishly long legs, and she accelerates as soon as Ivan gets his belt on.

"We're going to the top of the world by Wal-Mart. There's a Jack-in-the-Box like two minutes from there and God, have you ever had those curly fries while high?" Laughing, Lucy speeds onto the freeway and cuts off some hideously orange Toyota. Her sweater today is light blue with a cartoon monkey on the front, and is, as always, too big and hideous over her black leggings and ankle boots. "Anyway, tell me what's up."

"Are you gonna, uh, change the substance depending on severity?"

Lucy throws him a look. "Braginski, do I look like I'd waste my salvia on an Intervention?"

"Just checking," he grumbles. "I need help with Jones. He's being a cunt."

"That's descriptive. Cunt as in _me_ or _you_?"

(She's asking whether Jones's recent issues are because he's bringing them upon himself, a la Romy, or because of his own piss-poor luck, a la Ivan.)

"Me, unfortunately."

"Ooh." Lucy grimaces, overtakes a Hyundai without indicating. "So that's why he's been flipping out. Who's the lucky lady? Assuming that it _is_ a lady. Never know with you Jocks."

"The exchange student."

"Elly? Really?"

Ivan sighs. "Yeah."

"I see your problem. Liz isn't gonna let Jones touch her, you know."

"That's why we need you."

"So sweet," laughs Lucy. She exits the freeway and Ivan cringes as she speeds through a yellow light. "I love how you used a favour to get him help. You sure you're crushing on Kaltherzig, not Jones?"

Ivan rolls his eyes. "Pretty sure. I don't want to hotbox."

"Good call, I just got a car wash."

Lucy parks along a generally unused road at the top of the hill and unlocks the door. "Can you get the pipe? It's under your seat." She heaves herself up out of her seat, stretches, twists her hair over her shoulder; there's an obnoxiously hot pink and white feather on the left side of her head, attached somewhere beneath her bangs, and one long streak of pink highlight from the nape of her neck down over the left side.

"Nice colours," comments Ivan as he gets to his feet. It's not windy but it's cold, grass still wet from rain earlier in the day, and they sit on the Audi's hood to pack the pipe.

"Aren't they? You're taking too long, give me that." Lucy plops down next to him and crosses her legs, taking the plastic bag from Ivan and laying over her thigh. There a long, narrow first-aid box in the bag; she pops the top and extracts the pale blue blown-glass pipe and the little package of weed from inside, the latter of which she tears open with her teeth. "I told Matt to get me medical, so this won't fuck you up. Also, I've got Abercrombie in the trunk."

"Got a guy on the side?" Ivan's teasing; Lucy's boyfriend, whom she's very committed to, is captain of Saint Justine's varsity soccer team and is notorious for using exclusively AXE.

She sneers, possibly-probably hurt at the idea that Ivan might think she was cheating. "Antonio left it at my place a while ago and I never got around to giving it back."

Lucy packs expertly, strips the stems clean and picks out the seed before tempting the leaves down with her ring finger. She swaps the pipe for the lighter in Ivan's hand. "You first," she says, testing the lighter a few times.

Ivan swallows and cringes as he lifts the pipe to his mouth. Lucy heaves a sigh and reaches over to adjust his hold on it, because he's only ever used joints, and she lights it for him too.

"Drag, breathe, exhale," she reminds him, and clucks her tongue at the sight of the thin, pale smoke he blows out. "Light it yourself this time—tilt the pipe toward the side and hold the flame against it, and suck 'til you feel it in your throat.

He cheats again and inhales the smoke just to the back of his mouth, but his throat itches and he coughs wetly. Lucy laughs loudly and whacks him on the back, stands and walks around to probe through the backseat of her car for a much-needed bottle of water. Ivan drinks half of it in one go when she hands it to him. "Ow," he groans, rubbing at his tearing eyes as Lucy takes her own two hits.

The pipe's empty after five or six more rotations. Ivan's throat burns; Lucy's fetched him another bottle of water and he aforementioned can of AXE from the trunk, and she sprays herself once over with Pure Seduction before striding out.

"So not that that's done," she says, rubbing her hands with white citrus sanitizer from the mini-bottle dangling from the lanyard around her neck. Ivan reaches out and she spurts some onto his palms. "What do you want to do about Jones?"

Ivan coughs and breathes slowly for a few seconds before responding. "I don't—I don't know."

"Man, you're gonna make me think this up on my own?" Lucy groans and leans back on the hood of her Audi.

"I thought you could just talk to her—"

"You make it sound like Hedervary would just let Elly out of her sight. It's not like you and me—I can't just, like, swoop in and grab her and run away real fast."

"That's true, but—"

"Also, Hedervary _knows _about Jones's crush," Lucy points out. "You think she hasn't already filled Elly's head with fallacies of how much of a douche Jones is?"

"I know she has, but—"

"And we can't even get Francis to help. She fucking hates the guy."

"Yeah, I saw her break his nose, but—"

"Maybe we can get her at a party? I know Kaltherzig's throwing one next weekend. Who knows, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone and sort out your problems too." She leers.

Ivan sighs. "Is Elly the partying type? She doesn't look like it."

"I don't actually know," admits Lucy, and then, more carefully, "I was thinking I'd get Feliciano to find out." Ivan's mouth twists; it's no secret to the school that he abhors the younger Vargas, but Lucy's the only one other than Alfred who knows _why_.

Hint: it has something to do with the amount of time Feliciano, as an absolute moron in desperate need of help in literally every subject, gets to spend with Kaltherzig in the form of Monday-through-Friday 6PM-to-8:30PM tutoring.

Still there's nothing Ivan can do about it. He's technically not even allowed to be at Lucy's house, because The Rules don't sanction Jock-Gamer interaction. Technically, though, they don't sanction Runner-Gamer interaction, as seen with Lucy and Antonio, who are definitely going to win the Most Likely to Still be Together in Ten Years vote at the end of the year, either, and illegal or not those two are _sickening_ in how much they adore each other. Seriously. Ivan's got some very racist West Side Story allusions that he stifles only by remembering exactly how much material Lucy's got to blackmail him with.

Ultimately, Ivan finds it too hard to concentrate, and he leans back and closes his eyes as Lucy muses aloud to herself. She's probably figured everything out, he placates himself by thinking as they climb back into the car and pass the bottle of white-capped Rohto between them. It stings like a motherfucker—tears well and drip down Ivan's cheeks at the intensity while Lucy tilts her head back and aims carefully to avoid smearing her makeup.

He shudders as she starts the car. "That feels like fucking—_ugh_, that's like liquid nitrogen."

"Sorry about that," says Lucy and she probably means it because she tells him that there are napkins in the glove compartment, which he uses to mop at his streaming eyes. "I'm craving barbacoa. You still want Jack-in-the-Box?"

"Chipotle sounds good," he replies, and she lets him pick the music as she drives. The first preset is for a top-40s channel, and he's not high enough for Justin Beiber so he changes it to classic rock. It reminds Ivan of Jones's car—Baby's radio is always on rock alternative, but the box of tapes in the backseat are all classic bands and Jones, famous for his love of old rock, tends to play one of those instead. Lucy shoots Ivan a dubious glance and a grin, but says nothing.

Ivan orders online—one Baracoa bowl with everything for Lucy, one carnitas burrito with extra meat and guac for himself—and gives her the ten in his wallet to pay for his own food when she goes inside. They eat in the car, down the road from Ivan's house, and after Lucy convinces him that Billboard _is too _bearable when baked, spend an hour singing horribly along with whatever Ryan Seacrest has for them.

All in all, it's a good Friday, and Ivan says that confidently because the text from Hedervary doesn't come until 12:01 AM.

**A/N: I'm honestly thinking the same thing as est. 1995: do you guys want this to stay US/F!UK and Rus/Ger, or turn into Rus/US? I'm kinda like Lucy in the sense that I'm getting the feeling Ivan might have a crush on someone else besides Kaltherzig (and not even know it? It might be interesting). Lol, anyway, leave your thoughts in the box below or don't, but then I get decide! XD**

**¬theflawintheplan**


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